


Cat Found

by Almost_Convinced_I_Am_Real



Series: Suburban Robots [1]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Attempt at Humor, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 16:56:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11017614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Almost_Convinced_I_Am_Real/pseuds/Almost_Convinced_I_Am_Real
Summary: Guy-Man jerks the cord from the wall. A soft whirr sounds through the dark bedroom as Thomas’ systems activate. With a twitch, Thomas pushes himself up, using his elbows to support himself. His head twists around the dark room in confusion.“Thomas. There’s a cat in our sink.”“What?”“There is a cat. In our sink.”





	Cat Found

It is hours past midnight, and Guy-Manuel really should have gone to bed a long time ago. He’d decided to get some work done before calling it a day and had forgotten the time. Wait, no – that’s a lie. He knew very well how late it was getting; he simply ignored it whenever his gaze drifted towards the clock. It wasn’t until the small red light began flashing, signaling his energy levels were getting dangerously low, that he admitted defeat.

He makes his way into the kitchen, to put the materials where they belong lest Thomas complain about the mess in the morning, only to stop dead in his tracks when seeing the cat in the sink.

It’s a big, black thing, with fur that poofs out from its body. For the longest time, he merely stares at it, the enormous yellow eyes staring right back. Is this real? Is it a hallucination? Is he _that_ tired? Seemingly eager to prove him wrong, the cat opens its mouth wide.

“Meeeeeeeooooooow!”

Nope. It’s real. It has to be real. Pivoting, Guy-Man leaves the kitchen and strides into Thomas’ bedroom. He’s lying on his back, perfectly horizontal, a steady, green light under his chin showing that he’s just about fully charged. Knowing that, Guy-Man jerks the cord from the wall. A soft whirr sounds through the dark bedroom as Thomas’ systems activate.

“Thomas,” Guy-Man says, impatiently poking his partner’s head.

With a twitch, Thomas pushes himself up, using his elbows to support himself. His head twists around the dark room in confusion.

“Thomas. There’s a cat in our sink.”

A moment passes as Thomas stops moving and looks at Guy-Man, his optic sensors trying to focus in the darkness.

“What?” he says dazedly.

“There is a cat. In our sink.”

Thomas’ head dips down slightly, as if he’s about to nod off again, then rises slowly, almost contemplatively.

“We don’t have a cat.”

Guy-Man would’ve rolled his eyes, if he had any. “I know. That’s why I’m here, telling you this in the middle of the night.”

Thomas makes that sound that appears to be their version of a sigh. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and trudges after Guy-Man into the kitchen. The cat is still in the same spot, having only turned a little so it could lap up the residue drops from the nozzle on the faucet. After his optics has adjusted to the sudden light, Thomas spends a few seconds staring at the cat. He’s ostensibly as taken aback as Guy-Man was by the animal despite having been warned about it. The cat, finishing its drink, looks at them and meows even louder than it did the first time.

“Aww!” Thomas walks up to the animal, gently extending his hand to it. The cat thumps its head into his palm, then purrs as he scratches it behind the ear. “What a handsome little fellow! Do you know how he got in?”

“No.”

Guy-Man goes off to the side, standing so that the kitchen table was between him and the sink. He crosses his arms in front of his chest as Thomas musingly continues to stroke the cat.

“Maybe we left a window open somewhere…” Thomas says. Then, without further ado, he picks the cat up and puts it on the table. His fingers begin prodding around its thickly furred neck. The cat keeps purring.

“Doesn’t have a collar.” He checks both the cat’s ears, which it seems less happy about. “And no ear markings. It might be microchipped. We’ll have to take it to the veterinarian and see.”

“If we must,” Guy-Man says, right as his vision dims considerably. “Listen, I’m running on scraps, so I’ll be going to bed.”

Thomas attention snaps to Guy-Man.

“You still haven’t recharged?!” he asks sharply. “It’s half past two! What if you’d collapsed or-”

“Oh, my audio sensors just shut down, see you in the morning,” Guy-Man cuts him off as he dashes towards his own bedroom.

“ _It’s already morning!_ ”

* * *

Thomas has to carry the cat to the veterinary, since they don’t have anything to keep it in. Neither he nor the cat minds, him petting the animal at every opportunity and the cat purring non-stop. After they sit down in the waiting the room it rolls over onto its back, then nudges Thomas’ arm with its paw until he rubs its stomach. Some of the other visitors snicker as well as quietly coo at the sight.

“You sure you don’t want to hold him at all?” Thomas whispers.

“No, I’m good,” Guy-Man says as he scrutinizes the humongous fake plant that stands next to them. Thomas shrugs and returns his attention to the cat, which has curled itself around his arm, softly biting into his hand.

The veterinary that receives them is a young woman with dark hair in a ponytail. After introducing herself as “Camille”, she proceeds to examine the cat as Thomas explains how it ended up at their house.

“Well, it isn’t chipped,” she says, laying aside the scanner. “You have no idea who it belongs to?”

Thomas shakes his head. “None of our neighbors have cats.”

Humming thoughtfully, Camille starts to gently dig her fingers into the cat’s sides.

“On the verge of being underweight…”

“Underweight? That thing?!” Guy-Man says, the first time he’s made any sound since they left the waiting room. Camille smiles as she moves on to check the cat’s teeth.

“The thick fur makes it look well-fed, but going by touch alone, I’d say it hasn’t eaten properly for several days. It’s young, too: about a year old.” Turning the cat around, she lifts its tail. “And look at that – it’s a little lady.”

Thomas scratches the cat beneath the chin.

“Oh, then I’ve been misgendering you all day! I’m sorry about that.”

Camille giggles, but quickly turns serious again.

“In view of the lack of identification and the young age, there’s a possibility it was someone’s ‘vacation cat’, and that they left it behind when returning home”

Guy-Man glances at the cat, who darts between Thomas and Camille, apparently unable to decide which person to cuddle up against.

“Why would anyone do that?” he asks. Camille sighs.

“Some people don’t care about their pets, sadly. But it’s just as likely it has run away and has someone looking for it.”

Thomas, who the cat ultimately chose, looks up from it with an air of worry surrounding him.

“So, what should we do?”

Camille considers the cat, putting her hands on her hips while shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“How about I run a few tests to make sure it’s healthy? If it is, you can bring it back with you and take care of it until further notice, if you want to. I’ll give you tips on how to manage it, of course. If you don’t want the responsibility, or if something is wrong with it, we’ll send it to the closest animal rescue center. Sounds like a plan?”

Thomas looks at Guy-Man. Guy-Man shrugs, honestly not caring what they do. Thomas turns back to Camille.

“It sounds great!”

* * *

Apart from the aforementioned malnourishment, the cat is perfectly healthy, and they bring it home with the same afternoon. The remainder of the day is busy, with them going to numerous stores in order to buy whatever’s necessary to take care of the cat. Thomas spends much time deliberating what they do and do not need. After all, there’s a distinct possibility the cat won’t stay for longer than a week. In the end, he opts to act as if the cat will stay indefinitely and make things as comfortable as he can for it, with little to no input from Guy-Man. That includes getting bowls, a bed, a cat box, and food. A whole lot of food, that the cat wolves down the second it’s put in front of it.

Thomas, visibly melting, pours another can into the bowl.

“Don’t overfeed the thing,” Guy-Man says. “An obese cat is as bad as one that’s emaciated.”

“But she’s hungry! Besides, she’s active. She’ll get rid of the calories in no time,” Thomas says, and empties a third can into the bowl.

To be fair, Thomas isn’t wrong about the cat being active. Every night the house is turned into its own personal racing course. Waking up to find things toppled over and carpets tangled into themselves is something they’re forced to get used to. The time not dedicated to eating, sleeping, or sprinting laps around the house, is spent trying to cuddle every person it meets. Thomas is obviously the favorite, due to how willing he is to shower it with affection as soon as it enters his line of sight. Guy-Man mostly stares at the thing and steps away as it attempts to stroke itself against him. No, it only comes to him when he’s sitting down – it has learned that he’s both too lazy to actually get up when already seated, and that not even he is so heartless that he’ll move it when it’s planted itself in his lap. Damn cat. Another thing it quickly learns, is that claws against front door equals a soon to be open front door. Claws together with loud meowing produces the same results, but faster. Guy-Man is pretty sure he opens the door for the cat more than he’s ever opened it for himself.

The worst part about it, however, is that no matter how catlike it is otherwise, it’s also incredibly clumsy, habitually miscalculating jumps or falling down from things. One day, it lies on the kitchen table, belly up as an invitation. When Guy-Man once again refuses to acknowledge it, it starts rolling around, getting increasingly closer to the edge. Right as he’s about to leave the kitchen, he sees it roll off the table. Rushing forward, he manages to catch it before it hits the ground.

“Cats are supposed to be graceful!” he snaps as he drops it off at the table. The cat blinks slowly at him, it’s mouth curved into an almost-smile.

Seven days after placing ads all over the town, Thomas decides that they’ll need to call the monster something while it’s there. After some swift consideration, he settles on calling it “Flute”. It takes another five days before the cat starts answering to it, but after Thomas repeatedly says the name to its face and rewards it with candy whenever it reacts, it appears the animal grows to accept the new name. In celebration, Thomas buys a collar for it, white with a silver plate, the word ‘Flute’ engraved in gold letters.

“Don’t go and get too attached now,” Guy-Man says. “The real owners may come to claim it any day.”

“I know,” Thomas says. “But it’s been almost three weeks. I don’t think it’s illogical to assume that she truly was abandoned.”

Guy-Man doesn’t continue the discussion. Thomas is probably right. But if he isn’t, he will most certainly be brokenhearted when they’ll have to give the cat up. Guy-Man really doesn’t want that to happen.

* * *

Four weeks after they found the cat, Thomas goes into the living room where Guy-Man is watching television, noticeably anxious.

“Do you know where Flute is? I haven’t seen her since yesterday noon. That’s over 24 hours.”

“The monster wanted to be let out around 3 o’clock yesterday.”

Guy-Man turns off the TV, thinking back to the previous day. Did he see the cat again after that? No… No, he’s 100% sure he didn’t. It was very unexpected, waking up to a house that _wasn’t_ in complete disarray.

“Do you think she’s been out _all_ night?” Thomas asks, the worry in his tone thickening.

“Yeah… I guess.”

Thomas slumps like a parched flower, shoulders slouching and head hanging low. Guy-Man jumps up from the couch to lay a comforting hand on Thomas’ arm.

“But that’s what cats are like. Even someone as affectionate as Flute needs space sometimes. It’s been less than a day. She’ll be back soon. I’m sure of it.”

Thomas nods, straightening up again. He’s still troubled by the situation – so much that Guy-Man can practically feel the concern radiate off him – but less so. He picks up his computer, saying he’ll go get some work done (which Guy-Man assumes means “I’ll go distract myself”). Guy-Man returns to the television. In the corner of the sofa lies a thick quilt that Flute likes to sleep on. It’s covered in long, black cat hairs, but the cat itself is nowhere to be seen. It stays like that for the rest of the day. It feels strange, bizarre even, not to have anything climb into your lap and stick its head in front of your face when you least need it. Or not having something run around your legs as you’re walking. Or not hearing a loud groaning every time the food bowl is empty. Thomas doesn’t mention it, but the despondent looks he gives Flute’s things whenever he passes them tells Guy-Man all he needs to know. Late that night, right before going to bed, he fills the bowl with Flute’s favorite flavor and leaves the window by the sink ajar.

* * *

Guy-Man has a headache, or whatever he’s supposed to call it nowadays, when he wakes up. He turns to pull his recharge-cord from the jack, only to stop dead when seeing the big, black furball sit on the carpet by his bed. Flute’s enormous yellow eyes stares at him cheerfully. Opening her mouth, she lets out a large meow. Guy-Man yanks out the cord.

“Monster,” he says. “Do you know how worried Thomas has been about you?”

Flute meows again, tilting her head to the side. She looks unbelievably pleased with herself. Rising, Guy-Man hoists her up and carries her into Thomas’ room. Holding her under one arm, he uses the other to pull Thomas’ cord. Before Thomas has the time to properly twitch himself awake, Guy-Man has dumped Flute in his lap. She instantly starts pawing his chest.

“Flute!” Thomas gathers her in his arms, overjoyed, then starts fussing over what a mess her fur is in. It makes Guy-Man _really_ wish for a pair of eyes to roll.

“Where have you been, huh?” Thomas asks her. She blinks slowly and smiles her little almost-smile in reply.

The answer turns out to be “hunting”. Or, at least that’s what they presume after finding the dead rat in the kitchen ten minutes later. Damn cat.


End file.
